


162 - Artist Reader & Colourful Fluff

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 08:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17403470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts “the reader is an artist and upon spotting Van, decides to sketch him. Van being the confident man he is approaches the reader and is impressed” and “van dating an artist, and when she moves in with him he and the lids build a little art studio in the backyard for her?”





	162 - Artist Reader & Colourful Fluff

It had been a long winter and as soon as that fucking sunshine came out you were on the bus and off to the park. On your usual bench, you curled your legs up and sat cross-legged, watching the world go by. The breeze was still cool; hardly anyone had committed to a full summer outfit. Scarfs hung from bags and umbrellas were under arms, just in case. Pulling your sketchbook out, you dug around for a pencil. You weren't picky about what you used to draw with in the book. There were a few pages that even had scribbles of coffee, a stirring stick your makeshift paintbrush. Anything would do, as long as whatever image was in your head found its way out onto the paper. The muddy puddles, muddier dog paws… The mums with their strollers… The girl with green hair working at the café across the road… You captured them in ink.

The café was one of your favourite places to watch people. You'd never actually been there but your bench in the park gave you a front row seat. It was buzzing that day; every seat out the front occupied by someone seeking the sun's returned warmth. Surveying them all, your eyes stopped on a guy having breakfast with who you assumed were his parents. He'd caught your attention because each time a dog walked past, he'd lean out to pat it. Racking up four conversations with strangers before his food even arrived, you could sense his kindness. As the waiter delivered plates, he moved his reflective sunglasses onto his head, pushing his brown hair back. You started to draw.

You started with his nose and worked your way out. You had to make up details. He was across the road; if he had freckles or scars or two different coloured eyes, you'd not know. You could just see pale and pretty. In your drawing, he was sitting at the table out the front of the café but all the other seats were taken by dogs. The guy was in an animated conversation with two of them. On their plates were steaks and on his pancakes. That's what he'd ordered in reality and you watched as he cut through the stack and ate in bites like that, rather than one pancake at a time.

Lost in the details, the shading on the bricks, the reflection in the puddles, you had also lost track of time. Looking up, the boy who loved puppies was gone. You closed the book and went to move.

"Don't look done to me," a voice said. You jumped, startled, and turned. He was leaning over the back of the bench. The puppy guy.

"How long have you been there?" you replied quickly, moving to stand. He stood up straight.

"Not as long as you've been watching me, before you get all defensive," he said. A fair point. You didn't like people looking at your sketchbook. But, he probably didn't like being watched and drawn without permission either. "Sorry. For looking. But, I saw you before and I was just going to come ask what you were doin', but you didn't even notice me walk up. In your own little world. So… I'm sorry, love,"

"No… It's… It's alright. I should have asked. Super weird. I'm sorry," you replied. You were both sorry. Nobody needed to say it again. He smiled at you.

"You turned my mum and dad into dogs," he said with a smirk.

"But, you like dogs so it's okay?" you tried. The words came out as an explanation instead of a joke, but he still grinned wide.

"I do. Yeah. It's really good," he pointed at the sketchbook you were clutching to your chest. "The picture. Can I see it again, proper?"

"If you let me draw you, proper," you replied immediately. The words fell from your mouth straight from your subconscious before you had time to think about how they'd sound to a stranger. He smiled again though and nodded. He sat down on the bench and motioned for you to do the same. Next to him, you slowly handed over the open book. While he looked at the picture you pulled another sketchbook from your bag. That one was dedicated to portraits. You worked fast to capture the sharp angles of his cheekbones and nose, and the softness of his hair and freckles. You'd not got far when he looked up.

"Can I look at the rest?"

No. Never. If you said that though, he'd disappear into the city. You'd never see his face again. The drawing would live either incomplete or filled in by detail you'd never know if you'd made up or if it were real. Slowly, you nodded and tried to not think about any weird shit you'd scribbled on the paper. As he read your visual journal, you drank in as much of detail of his face and body as possible. Either he was purposefully giving you time or he was your biggest fan. After the portrait, you had time to draw his hands and the necklace that hung between his collarbones. When you closed the book in your hands, he closed the one in his and gave it back.

"Can I see those ones?" he asked, nodding towards the portrait book. You gave him a small smile and shook your head. "No? What!? But it's me!" he laughed. You shrugged. He grinned and put one arm across the back of the bench. He thought for a second. "I'll pay you for them?"

"I don't want your money,"

"Not a struggling artist, living off noodles?"

"I am. Still don't want your money,"

"What about dinner? I'll take you to dinner and you show me those and we'll be golden?"

He was beautiful and kind and liked puppies and had pancakes with his mum and dad on warm days. Honestly, you would have taken anything he was offering. "Your name. Tell me your name, so I can add it to the page, and I'll show you,"

"My name? That all?" You nodded. "Van. My name's Van. Full name's Ryan Evan McCann," he told you, and you wrote it next to the picture of him. He traced over your lines with a finger and smiled. "You've made me look heaps better than I actually do,"

"What do you mean?"

"Got this little scar thing under this eye," he said. "Only sometimes shows up. Weird thing. And guess you can't see my teeth in the drawin', so you can't tell that they're crooked,"

"You're beautiful. And, this is what I do, so you've got to believe me, you know?" you replied. Being matter-of-fact, you didn't mean it as a direct compliment, but of course it was. He beamed.

"You think I'm beautiful? That mean you'll still let me buy you dinner?" Looking at him carefully, studying his face again, you slowly nodded. Ripping a blank page from your sketchbook, you wrote your number down next to a cartoon puppy with hearts for eyes. He took it, chuckled, and folded it up gently. "Aaaaaand what's your name?"

"Y/N,"

"Y/N, the artist," Van said nodding.

Parting ways at the bench, he headed off into the city, and you went home to procrastinate and nap.

…

Everything about dating Van had been easy. Conversation on dates. Meeting friends and family. Even being long distance on and off. He'd always find a way to be there when you needed him or when you wanted him. Every exhibition you got to be a part of, he'd be there. Every show he played in the country, you'd be side of stage for. The months rolled into a year, and a little after that you were sitting on old outdoor furniture in Van's backyard.

"Y/N! Can I move this canvas?" Van called from inside.

"Not yet. It's there 'cause it needs the temperature and humidity," you yelled back. A few minutes later Van appeared with two mugs of tea. You moved sketches out of the way so he had room to place them on the table. He caught a loose piece of paper before it got caught in the wind. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he sighed as he placed it on the pile of paper as a weight. "Thanks,"

"Welcome."

He sat quietly and watched you draw. It was something that used to make you nervous but that had changed quickly. Somehow Van became exempt from all those rules. He could flip through any of your sketchbooks without asking. He got to see works in progress. Maybe it was that he never had criticisms; he only ever showered you with praise. Maybe it was because he shared half-finished songs and bits of melodies with you, so it was an even thing. Maybe it was just that you trusted him entirely. Reasons irrelevant, having him watch over you in his backyard was something you were used to.

"Babe? Question,"

"Yeah?"

"What was your plan, with like, moving out or whatever?"

"Out of mum's?" you asked, looking up to see Van nod. "Uh, no plan. While I'm still in school and trying to get more galleries to pick up my stuff it makes sense to stay there. Don't have to pay rent." Your part-time job at a café paid for the art supplies you couldn't source through art school. You had a mentor there that would order things in on the downlow for you. As soon as Van had met your friends, all your gifts from him were magically from your supply wishlist. He'd asked once if you wanted other things, non-art gifts. You didn't. You didn't need anything else. Your mum bought you things when she could too. You didn't have enough income to ever consider moving out.

"Yeah. I was thinking though, maybe you could move in here? Wouldn't have to pay rent either,"

"Bills, but,"

"I'd pay them,"

"Doesn't seem fair," you replied, sipping the tea he'd made you.

"You let your mum pay bills,"

"She's my mum. That's her job. She brought me into this world. Has to look after me. You're my boyfriend-"

"And I wanna look after you," Van interrupted. He'd thought about it. More accurately, he'd dreamed about it.

"I'm not really the type of girl that wants to be looked after by a boy, you know?"

"It's not like that. I just… I've thought it through. Here is heaps closer to school. Literally save you two hours every day that you don't need to be on the bus. You could work more and use that money for bills if you wanted, even though I don't need you to. The band makes me more money than I need. You would have more room for all your stuff. We could set up one of the bedrooms as a studio. You're here almost all the time anyway. I just… I just want to fall asleep with you every night I can," he said. His palms were pressed together in a begging prayer. His points were valid and logical. You thought for a second.

"When you're not here, how will I pay for food?" you asked.

"I even thought about that! Saw it on T.V. the other night, innit! There's heaps of them places that bring groceries to your door every week with little recipes and stuff. It's perfect 'cause you hate shopping and don't know how to cook," he said. You gasped, feigning hurt. You were very, very bad at cooking without a clear recipe in front of you. "Before I go on tours I can just set up all the utilities and everything so they just get paid automatically. You don't have to worry about a thing, babe. And if you care that much, one day when you're a super famous artist in them fancy galleries, I'll be a house husband and you can look after me."

He was beautiful and his want to look after you was pure. It wasn't driven by some weird notion of what men do in relationships. He just wanted to be able to draw and paint and create all day, unaffected by the limitations of being an adult.

"One condition," you said.

"Anythin',"

"Little Mary has to move in too." Van laughed, nodded and stood up. You let him pull you from the chair and kiss you hard.

…

You giggled as you walked awkwardly through Van's house, starting the next day, your house too. It was the afternoon before the day you moved in. Van's hands covered your eyes and your hands were over his. He was walking along behind you, guiding you outside.

"Promise ya can't see?"

"Yeah, Van." In the backyard, you could hear voices. Bernie and Larry. Then, Bob's laugh and another you didn't recognise. They went quiet as you approached. "Hi, everyone," you said. They laughed.

"Alright, babe, you ready?" Van asked. You could hear how excited he was. You nodded under his hands. He returned your vision and it took a few seconds for eyes to adjust to the sunlight.

There was a new structure in the backyard taking up half the space. It looked like an oversized cubby house or one of the mini houses you watched people hunt for on television. It was beautiful and you hadn't figured out what it was. Looking around the group, Van was smirking.

"Go look," he instructed.

You walked away from the group and slowly opened the door handle. Stepping inside, you immediately went weak at the knees. It was an art studio. None of the rooms inside the house were really appropriate for one; not enough natural light or way for the fumes to escape. So, Van had built you one. Not only had he built you one, but it was filled with clean canvases, stacks of paints and brushes and sketchbooks and pencils and everything you'd ever wanted. Your eyes started to well up with tears. The room was bright with sunlight let in from the huge windows. There was a bench along the back wall with a sink, and you tested the tap and watched the water flow. Underneath that was a bar fridge, already filled with coconut water and diet Cherry Dr Pepper. Taking up an entire side wall was a huge couch; it was a beautiful retro velvet thing that looked like something Bondy would love. The floor was wooden and you could imagine how paint splattered it would get. It was heaven on Earth, built just for you.

Van appeared in the doorway. You turned around, hands over your mouth. He smiled. He walked to one of the benches and turned on a stereo. You noticed the speakers in each corner of the room.

"It's even got heating and cooling," he said, pointing to a control panel near the door. "Made sure you can control humidity and all that stuff, 'cause I remember that matters to the paint."

"Van… How…" you tired, but there were a lot of questions. How did he hide this project from you? How quickly did it get built? How much did it cost? Who helped? The group outside couldn't have done it by themselves. You tried to remember when you were last in the backyard or saw it through a window. Not being able to remember indicated some sort of witchcraft inception shit had happened. Van had started smoking out the front a while ago and you followed him out there to draw. The curtains on the windows were shut and you'd never bothered to open them. Was it as easy as that? You were usually so observant. Van crossed the space and held his arms open. You held him tight and let yourself cry with happiness for a bit.

"I did good?" he asked. You looked at him, wiping your tears away with your shirt sleeve.

"You did so, so good. Fuck, Van. This is… too much,"

"Can't exactly return it, babe. Lost the receipt." You laughed and looked around again. "Now you're never gonna move out,"

"Trying to trap me here with my own studio?"

"Yeah. Did it work?" he smirked.

"Totally. I am never leaving this room,"

"Well, you have to. They all helped a lot, so you gotta tell them you like it," Van said, pointing with his thumb outside. You nodded and followed him out to the group. Your bloodshot eyes and impossibly wide smile told them everything. Bob, Bernie, and Bernie's friend from rugby had done a lot of heavy lifting and hard work. Larry said he helped by buying supplies, and the girl at the art store gave him her number. He was happy. You hugged each of them and tried to explain how grateful you were. Words fell short and you ended up sounding a lot like Van when he tried to explain how much he appreciated the success of Catfish.

After a full and detailed tour of the studio, where each person showed you what they did, they left you and Van alone. It was then he admitted that most of the building and all the plumbing and electrical work was done by hired professionals. You laughed, nodding. It was something you assumed. Van sat on the couch and patted his legs in an invitation for Little Mary. She jumped up and settled in for a nap. You stood in front of an easel and a blank canvas. It was a moment to paint freely, without a plan.

"Gotta make it a good one, Y/N. First thing you'll ever make here," Van said, patting Mary behind the ears. Not needing to think about it, you immediately started with the angles of Van's nose and cheekbones. He was patient while you created him in paint, sitting on the couch in conversation with another. Mary, but human sized. The painting was funny but unsettling. Just like the drawing of Van at the café you'd sketched out over a year and a half ago. After a while, Van stood and walked over. He laughed then made a sound that reflected the unsettling part. You grinned. You liked conflicting reactions.

"Good?"

"Creepy, Y/N,"

"But you like dogs so it's okay," you replied, remembering the exact thing you'd said to him the day you met. He laughed at that.

"I do. But I like you more," he said, kissing the top of your head. He looked around and sighed. "Knew I forgot something. Can't make tea without a kettle. I'll get you one tomorrow." He kissed your head again and walked out the door, heading inside for English Breakfast.

In your studio with your paints and all the love that the room held, that Van had built it with, you were home.


End file.
